


Veni, Vidi, Vici

by teaandjumpers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Historical, M/M, Smut, smut thinly veiled as a historical au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 03:55:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaandjumpers/pseuds/teaandjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the son of one of the richest families in Rome and the brother of a high-ranking politician, Sherlock is far too careless when it comes to his nightly strolls through some of the less savory parts of the city, which is why his brother hires a centurion by the name of John to protect him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Veni, Vidi, Vici

**Author's Note:**

> My knowledge of the period is heavily reliant on the HBO series Rome. Please, ignore the historically and geographically inaccurate names. Along with everything else that’s inaccurate.

As the brother of a high-ranking politician in the Roman senate and the son of one of the richest families in Rome, Sherlock was truly blessed. He wasn’t tied down by politics the way Mycroft was and, as a nobleman, was free to roam the city as he pleased. Rome, the melting pot that it was with people from different countries arriving every day and something fascinating happening behind every corner, was the ideal city for a curious young man with abundant energy.

It was a hot day and Sherlock was lounging about the villa, waiting for the sun to set so that he could go out and explore the city under the cool veil of the night. He was lying on a bench that stood next to a fountain and was kicking at the running water with his feet. He was grateful that Mycroft was talking politics with fellow members of the senate in another wing of the villa, or he would have stormed in and yelled at Sherlock for acting improper.

The heat was so overwhelming that Sherlock unwrapped his toga to the waist and spread himself out on the bench. Unlike many noblemen within the city, Sherlock opted not to wear a tunic under his toga, leaving his arms and the left side of his waist bare. It drove Mycroft mad and he told Sherlock that he looked like a prostitute. A man of his age and stature showing that much skin—it was unheard of. But Sherlock didn’t care. The tunics were always made from scratchy materials and he just loved the feel of the toga’s thick fabric against his skin. Besides, their family was rich enough and influential enough that nobody would dare make disparaging comments about Sherlock—at least not to the family’s face.

He was dreadfully bored. The hot weather always made him lethargic, and he made a mental note to sleep in in the future to avoid having to put up with the daytime heat.

There was the sound of boots against the cobblestone and Sherlock sat upright, hurriedly adjusting his robe. He could recognize the sound of his brother’s footfall anywhere—purposeful, tempered, and, most importantly, perfectly attuned to the gait of the person walking with him. It was a trait of Mycroft’s, a useful one, no doubt, subconsciously gaining his company’s trust by stepping in perfect time with him or her.

By the heavy footfall of Mycroft’s guest and the rustle of thick straps of leather, Sherlock deduced that the other person was a soldier.

When Mycroft and the other man turned the corner, Sherlock’s deduction was proven correct. 

The man was short. Comically short for a soldier and nothing like the brutish men that typically passed for Roman officers. He had dark blonde hair, a confident gait, and two of the most well toned legs Sherlock had ever seen. Though he wasn’t as large as most of the other soldiers, he was every bit as strapping, and the uniform, which Sherlock had always begrudgingly found fetching, fit the man perfectly. His blindingly white tunic stood stark against the blood-red colour of his leather skirt. The lappet suited him well and as he walked towards Sherlock, the leather straps swayed, revealing long strips of the man’s tanned legs.

A spike of pleasure shot through Sherlock and tugged at his navel. It wasn’t customary for soldiers to board with families of Sherlock and Mycroft’s stature, but Sherlock secretly prayed to the gods that the man was staying with them.

Sherlock stood when the two men came to a stop in front of him and he was glad to note that he was at least half a foot taller than the man. It gave him a feral sense of satisfaction.

“Ah, Sherlock,” said Mycroft in greeting. “I see you’re making good use of your time.”

Sherlock held his chin up high. “I suppose I should spend my days in the senate talking about the state of the Republic with old men who smell of meat and garlic. Tell me, how fares the Republic?”

Mycroft bristled and visibly bit back a retort. “I’m not here to talk of the Republic,” said Mycroft. “I’m here to talk of you.”

Sherlock said nothing and simply raised an eyebrow.

“This is John,” said Mycroft. “He’s a centurion and one of the most celebrated soldiers of Rome.”

“Fascinating,” said Sherlock, stepping up to John and taking his measure. Up close, Sherlock could see that the soldier’s eyes were a deep blue. He had a strong jaw and smelled heavily of olives and leather. The scent made Sherlock’s mouth water.

“Aren’t you a little short for a centurion?” asked Sherlock.

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak in John’s defense, but John beat him to it. “I find, sir,” said John with a hint of defiance in his tone, “that a man’s height doesn’t determine his worth.”

Great, thought Sherlock. The man had no sense of humour. And he probably had a high moral standard. Neither was favourable.

“Alright,” said Sherlock. “I’m at a loss. Who is he?”

“He’s to be your bodyguard,” said Mycroft.

“Bodyguard,” said Sherlock, not amused. “Has there been a threat on my life?”

“No,” said Mycroft. “But you can’t go gallivanting off into the city on your own. Praise Fortuna that nothing has happened to you yet with the way you insist on dressing and your ridiculous hair.”

Sherlock thought he saw John smirk, but he ignored it. “My hair is naturally like this,” said Sherlock, aware that in Rome curls like his were considered effeminate.

“Of course,” said Mycroft. “There’s no use trying to keep you locked inside the villa. I know you’ll find a way out. At least, if John’s with you, I’ll have some peace of mind.”

Sherlock decided against arguing the matter. It might even be useful to have a man with John’s skills at hand.

“Very well,” he said, shocking his brother into silence. He nodded to John and said, “Follow me.”

 

#

 

Sherlock went to his rooms to change, glad to hear John’s footsteps behind him. He disliked wearing his white toga in the night. For one, it got dirty far too easily, and more importantly, it would make him an easy target if he ever found himself needing to outrun someone. He thought on it and decided the maroon toga would do for tonight. It was his favourite and its rich colour looked good against his alabaster skin.

He strode into his room and pulled off his robe, letting it pool around his feet. He thought he heard something akin to a choking noise from behind him, but he ignored it. The air felt amazing against his skin, but it would not do to go out bare. He pulled out the toga he wanted and called to John. “Come and help me,” he said.

“I’m not a servant,” said John. “I’m a soldier.”

Sherlock spun on his heels and sauntered up to John, raking his eyes over the man as he did so. John’s cheeks were red and he determinedly kept his eyes on Sherlock’s. 

“You can look,” said Sherlock. “You are, as you said, a soldier. You’ve seen men before.”

John snorted. “Not men like you,” he said, and Sherlock wasn’t entirely certain if that was an insult or a compliment. “I’ll wait for you in the hall,” said John, giving Sherlock a curt nod and leaving the room.

When Sherlock was dressed, he found John out in the gardens. The man was admiring the hanging flowers, letting one sit in the palm of his hand. He was, without doubt, the most gentle-appearing soldier Sherlock had ever seen. He moved towards John quietly, causing the man to gasp and draw his sword when Sherlock got close. 

“There aren’t many men who can sneak up on me,” said John.

“Good to know my family’s money is well spent,” said Sherlock. “Shall we?”

John fell into step with Sherlock. “And where are we going?”

“The crematorium,” said Sherlock, excited. “They recently received a man who lived for twenty years with a nail lodged in his head. I’d like to extract the nail and see how deeply entrenched it was in the skull.”

“Lovely,” said John, following Sherlock into the night.

 

#

 

Even at night, the streets of Rome were full of people and the sounds of chatter and leers. Sherlock was always accosted when he went out, especially at night, but he managed to stay out of harm’s reach. With John there with him, Sherlock was pleased to note that people gave them a wide berth, parting and quieting when they saw him.

“Tell me,” said Sherlock on their way to the crematorium, “How many men have you killed?”

“Why do you care?” asked John. He was walking with one hand grasping the sheath of his sword and the other on its hilt.

“Just curious,” asked Sherlock.

John let out a sigh that could be heard even over the bustle of the Roman nightlife. “I don’t know. Hundreds, I suppose.”

The thought of John in combat, plunging his sword into someone’s stomach, and drawing out the hot, blood-covered blade—it filled Sherlock with a dizzy want.

“And how did you cross paths with my brother? Mycroft seldom makes a habit of talking to anyone of low rank.”

John bristled at that, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “I was at the baths. I put an end to altercation. Your brother saw and called me over. He said he had a special assignment for me.” 

“Special assignment indeed,” Sherlock said to himself as they reached the crematorium. He took a small hammer and chisel from his leather pouch and set about dislodging the bolt on the door.

“Um, are you sure we should be doing this,” asked John.

“Of course,” said Sherlock, undoing the bolt and swinging the door open. “The owner knows me.”

John seemed wary of stepping inside, but Sherlock dragged him in by the wrist and bolted the door behind them. He grabbed two candles from the front counter and lit them. He handed one to John and he brought the other over to the body that was laid out on the table nearest him. The body was covered in a white linen that Sherlock threw off. He placed the candle near the man’s head and brushed his hair aside with his hands.

“I don’t think we should be here,” said John. “This isn’t right. You shouldn’t play with the dead.”

“Relax,” said Sherlock, moving in close to get a better look at where the nail had punctured the man’s head. “All the necessary rites have been performed. In his death, this man is providing a service to Rome.”

“By satisfying your curiosity,” said John.

“Exactly,” said Sherlock, smirking.

Sherlock took out his tool set from his pouch and pulled out a set of thinly toothed pliers. He dug into the man’s skull and slowly extracted the nail. It made a slight squelching sound as it slid out of the man’s head.

“Four inches long,” Sherlock said, wrapping the nail in a piece of cloth. “The man lived for years with this in his brain with reportedly no signs of mental deterioration.”

John moved close, his sword rattling in its sheath as he shifted. A slow burn coiled around Sherlock’s spine and he had to shut his eyes to compose himself. He hoped he would be able to see John use the sword sometime tonight.

“What’s the point,” asked John, leaning over the dead man. “What do you gain from doing this?”

Sherlock stood and stretched to his full height. “It’s fascinating,” he said. “And far better than wiling my days away at the circus, or those ridiculous pantomimes they put on in the square, or sweating in the baths.” He said the last one with a pointed look at John.

Instead of lecturing Sherlock about how lucky he was to have the financial stability that he did or how, as a nobleman, he had other duties that were expected of him, John gave Sherlock a small smile. It made Sherlock’s stomach summersault and he wanted to take John right then and there, the dead bodies and the gods be damned.

His plans were thwarted though when there was a loud clatter from the main alley paired with the sound of angered voices. Sherlock quickly grabbed John’s candle and blew it out, doing the same with his own. 

There was a pounding at the door and then a deep voice yelled, “Who’s in there?”

“Time to go,” he said, making his way towards a rear window that let out to the back alley. He pushed the wooden frame open and crawled through the tight space. He thanked Juno for making John compact or else he would not have fit through the small opening.

The door shook again. “Sherlock,” said the voice from outside. “I swear, if you’re in there, I’ll go straight to your brother.”

“I thought you said you knew the owner,” hissed John, following Sherlock through the window.

Sherlock helped John down from the sill and set off down the alley. “I said he knew me, I didn’t say he liked me.”

“We better find a tavern for the night,” said John, trotting alongside Sherlock. “We’re too far out to make it to the villa tonight and it would be risky to walk the streets it they’re still looking for you.”

Sherlock smiled to himself, pleased with the night’s turn of events.

 

#

 

The tavern was loud and dark, filled with the smell of meat and piss. Sherlock strode to the front counter and slapped a bountiful of coins onto the wooden table. 

“One room for the night,” he said to the tavern owner. 

The man had a thick moustache and long ringlets of oily curls. He looked from Sherlock to John and smirked. He nodded and slid the money into a black pouch. “Second floor,” he said, nodding to a staircase on his right. “Towards the back.”

Sherlock thanked the man and turned to John. “How about a drink?” 

John still had his hand on his sword. Sherlock wished he would switch off for a second. He covered John’s hand with his own and stroked it with his thumb. “Come on,” he said. “Just one drink.” 

Sherlock could see the exact moment John relented. His shoulders sagged and the hold on his sword loosened. “Very well,” he said. “I’m going to check out the room. You get us the drinks.” He pointed an accusing finger at Sherlock. “And stay out of trouble.”

Sherlock watched him walk away and decided that the back of John’s legs were just as mouth-watering as the front.

He walked towards the barman and asked for a jug of wine and cups. Sherlock took the wine and sat at the end of a long table. There was a group of boisterous men playing dice at the other end of the table and sprinkled between them and Sherlock were patrons who had buried their faces in their cups or in the bosom of one of the tavern’s whores. Sherlock ignored them and poured himself and John some wine. 

The wine was acceptable, far too sour for Sherlock’s taste, but it got the job done. He was pouring himself another cup when a man sat next to him and said, “What’s a pretty thing like you doing here?”

The man’s face was dirty and he had large hands with thick and grimy fingers. He brought a hand to Sherlock’s hair and wrapped one of Sherlock’s curls around a finger. “How much for the night,” he asked, licking his lips.

Sherlock leapt off of the bench, placing distance between himself and the drunken man. “I’m not for sale,” he said, checking the hallway for John. 

“Of course you are,” said the man, moving in close. Sherlock looked to the other patrons for help, but they were either too drunk too care or were watching the scene with amusement.

“Coming in with your clean clothes and those tightly wound curls,” he said. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s thigh and squeezed. “I’ve got something else you can wind yourself around.”

Sherlock heard a sharp shriek of laughter come from the back of the tavern, followed by a woman’s scream. The grip on his thigh immediately slackened and warm liquid covered his leg. 

He looked up to see John, sword in hand looking very solemn. The man who had been touching Sherlock just a second ago was now on the ground, clutching the stump where his hand used to be.

“Do we have a problem,” John asked the room, sword held high in challenge. “No?” he said when no one answered. “Good.” He looked down at the man and back up at the people in the tavern. 

“Someone get this man a doctor,” he said, and pulled Sherlock by the arm to their room.

 

#

 

Once inside their room, Sherlock slipped out of his toga.

“You have a habit of doing that,” said John, leaning against a table in the middle of the room. The space was modest, with a low ceiling. There was a straw bed in the corner and a small table and stool in the center. Someone had laid out some bread and olive oil on the table along with a basin filled with water.

“It was covered with that disgusting man’s blood,” said Sherlock, tossing the cloth into the far corner. He stretched his arms over his head and groaned loudly. “You can fetch me something to wear in the morning.”

John gave an exasperated roll of his eyes, but said nothing.

“Thank you,” said Sherlock, moving so that he stood directly in front of John. “For saving me. A bit excessive, though, don’t you think. Cutting off a man’s hand?”

“You’re nobility,” said John, determinedly not looking at Sherlock’s body. “I should have cut off both his hands for touching you.”

Sherlock grabbed John by the hair and forced the man’s gaze downwards.

“Let me repay you for your service,” said Sherlock. He placed his other hand under John’s skirt and pulled down the man’s loincloth. He grasped John’s member and ran his hand over it in long, even strokes. 

John was deliciously coy, pushing against the table in an effort to evade Sherlock’s touch. “I can’t,” said John between soft moans. “Your brother.”

Sherlock pressed a finger against John’s lips. “That’s enough of my brother.”

He led John to the bed and pushed the other man down onto it. John’s cock stood erect between the straps of his skirt. Sherlock leaned over it and inhaled deeply. John smelled of leather and sweat, a heady cocktail that made Sherlock’s insides throb.

He brought his hands to John’s thighs and parted them, bringing his lips close to the man’s swollen cock. Slowly, he brought his lips to John and swallowed the whole of him, inch by inch. John thrashed beneath him, bucking into Sherlock’s mouth and fisting his fingers into Sherlock’s curls. “Fuck,” he gasped. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Sherlock withdrew his lips from John and said, “If you insist.”

He grabbed the oil from the table and brought it to the bed. He coated the length of John’s cock with the oil and prepared himself with his fingers, thrusting them into his hole.

John watched with dark and greedy eyes, gripping Sherlock’s thighs as Sherlock opened himself up.

“I’ll be visiting Dis for this,” said John as Sherlock lined up his entrance with John’s cock.

“You and me both,” said Sherlock and he bore down on John, taking the entire length of the man in one go. Sherlock threw his head back and breathed deeply giving himself a moment to adjust to John’s girth.

John bucked beneath him, digging his nails into Sherlock’s waist and attempting to pull him closer. 

Sherlock pulled his body up, letting John’s length slide out of him only to snap his hips down again to envelop John’s cock. He repeated the motion again and again, feeling the heat build in his groin as John’s cock stretched him in the most intimate way. 

John had the most beautiful flush on his cheeks and Sherlock bent over to lick at it. As soon as his tongue swiped at John’s skin, John sprung up and flipped Sherlock onto his back in one fluid move.

“Impressive,” said Sherlock, breathless. He wrapped his legs around John’s waist and said, “Now fuck me.”

John pinned Sherlock’s hands above his head and drove into him. Sherlock let out a cry of pleasure and grappled at John’s waist with his legs. John pulled out of Sherlock, letting the tip of his cock tease Sherlock’s entrance.

“Please, John,” gasped Sherlock.

John reamed into him, thrusting into Sherlock ruthlessly. Sherlock mewled beneath him, clenching his arse tightly around John’s cock. With one final, brutal thrust, John came buried deep inside of Sherlock. 

John’s cock pulsed inside of Sherlock and his body thrummed with life. Sherlock ran his hands down his chest, his thighs, until they grasped his own leaking member. 

John grabbed at Sherlock’s hands and placed them at Sherlock’s sides. “Let me,” he said, and he bent down and took Sherlock in his mouth. He was clearly inexperienced, but the heat of that warm mouth was enough to send Sherlock over the edge. He fastened his hands around John’s head and pulled the man’s mouth closer to his groin. He could hear and feel John gagging around him, but he didn’t care. He held John’s head still and thrust into his mouth until the last bit of his seed emptied into that delicious orifice.

John sat up and swallowed with a grimace. He let out a deep breath and said, “Well, that was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

Sherlock braced himself up on his elbows. He regarded the man before him, still wearing his uniform, covered with sweat, and a goofy smile gracing his lips.

“And you invaded Gaul,” said Sherlock, his tone teasing.

John broke out in a genuine smile at that and leaned down to peck Sherlock on the lips. “That I did,” he said. “And now I’ve invaded you.”

“You call that an invasion,” said Sherlock, spreading himself out on the bed. “I led you right where I wanted you, soldier.”

“Is that so?” asked John, dipping down to tongue Sherlock’s nipple.

Sherlock twitched beneath him, his body sensitive from the aftershocks of orgasm. “Yes,” said Sherlock. “Though I’d be happy to school you in tactics.”

“Are we talking practical application or theory?” asked John.

“Practical,” said Sherlock. “Every night. And sometimes in the mornings. If Mycroft is out.”

“Sounds good,” said John, pressing a fierce kiss against Sherlock’s lips. “When do we start?”

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I watch too much yaoi.


End file.
